The Last Song We Never Finished

The first time Leo heard Amara sing, it was in a dimly lit bar on the east side of the city. The kind of place where dreams and whiskey sounded the same.

Her voice wasn’t perfect — it cracked on high notes, drifted off-key — but it felt. Every word seemed to come from somewhere deep, raw, and real.

He didn’t applaud like everyone else. He just stared, frozen, knowing without knowing that something inside him had just changed.

After the show, he walked up to her.

“You sound like you’ve lived a hundred lives,” he said.

Amara smiled, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “Maybe I have. Or maybe I just listen better than I live.”

He laughed, and that was it — the beginning of everything and the start of a heartbreak neither of them could see coming.

They became inseparable.

He played guitar. She sang. Together, they made music that didn’t care if anyone else was listening. They wrote songs on napkins, recorded demos in tiny apartments, and shared cheap pizza while arguing about lyrics.

But it wasn’t just music.

It was home.

Amara once told him, “You’re the only person who hears me before I even say a word.”

And Leo had smiled. “That’s because I’m always listening.”

They talked about moving to Nashville, about chasing the dream together. But dreams, like love, don’t always survive reality.

One night, after a small gig, they got the call — a record label wanted her.

Not them. Just her.

Leo was proud, truly. But pride has a way of hurting when love gets left behind.

“You’ll come too,” she said, eyes wide with hope.

He shook his head. “They only asked for you.”

“But I want you there.”

“Amara, this is your shot. You have to take it.”

She looked at him, tears threatening. “You say that like we won’t still be us.”

He didn’t answer. Because deep down, he already knew — once she left, nothing would sound the same again.

The night before her flight, they sat in silence, guitars between them.

“Play me something,” she whispered.

He strummed the first few chords of a song they never finished — a melody without lyrics.

Amara leaned her head on his shoulder and said, “Promise me you’ll finish it one day.”

He smiled sadly. “Only if you promise to come back and sing it.”

She nodded, kissed him softly, and said, “Always.”

But always turned into almost.

Months passed. Then a year.

Her name was everywhere — billboards, interviews, music videos. Amara had made it.

Leo tried to be happy for her. He still played their song sometimes — the unfinished one — but never in public. It felt like holding onto a ghost.

Then, one morning, he saw the headline:

“Rising Star Amara Collins Dies in Car Crash Outside Los Angeles.”

He read it again and again, each word heavier than the last.

He didn’t cry. He couldn’t. Grief sat in his chest like a stone.

For days, he didn’t speak. Didn’t eat. Just stared at his guitar, strings gathering dust.

Until one night, he picked it up.

And finally — finally — he played their song.

He finished it.

No words, no vocals. Just chords that trembled and broke.

It was beautiful and painful — the way love always is.

A few weeks later, her mother found him. She handed him a small, weathered envelope.

“She wanted you to have this,” she said softly.

Inside was a note, written in her messy handwriting:

“Leo,

I still hum our song before every show.

If you ever finish it, know that I’m listening — wherever I am.

Love always,

Amara.”

He smiled through the tears that finally came.

That night, he went back to the same bar where they first met. The crowd was different. The lights dimmer.

He sat on stage, guitar in hand, and whispered, “This one’s for Amara.”

And when he played, it felt like the universe stopped to listen.

Somewhere — maybe in the echo of the strings, maybe in the quiet between the notes — he swore he could hear her humming along.